


Phantom: A Retelling

by nomdebloom



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2020-10-21 07:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20690066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomdebloom/pseuds/nomdebloom
Summary: A retelling of the beloved classic, 'The Phantom of the Opera,' sans rapey undertones. Influenced by both the original novel and Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical.





	1. Prologue

**Paris, France 1870**

The door to the manager’s office opened slowly, only a few inches wide to offer the entrant an obscured view of the interior of the room. Its wood-paneled walls were surprisingly well lit by the gas lighting fixtures arranged around the room at intervals. They hissed softly and flickered now and again, and one could see in the warm light they cast that the little square space was empty save for a couple of desks, chairs, and a side table or two.

The man in the doorway leaned forward, pushing the door open slightly wider to reveal a dark, mustachioed face. His expression was a mixture of apprehension and high alert as his widened eyes peered for a third time around the room.

A voice could be heard in the hallway behind him, apparently carrying on some previous conversation, **“…and I am ** ** _very_ ** ** confident in that cellist, whatever you think of him.” **

There was a small pause, and then, **“Poligny? What are you doing?”**

The face in the doorway (‘Poligny,’ apparently) seemed to start and the man straightened, pushing the door open wide as if he had not been afraid to enter only moments before, **“What? Nothing. Let me see his contract.”**

The men entered the office together as the second man (much fairer in complexion and slightly taller than the first) handed the small stack of papers he carried to Poligny, **“Honestly, Emile, you should be much happier. We have managed to replace five musicians in as many days.”**

Emile Poligny did not respond to this and could only flip quietly through the papers he held while moving over to the desk on the far side of the office.

The other man (Nicolas Debienne, by name) continued, undeterred, **“…and hopefully ** ** _these_ ** ** will be substantially less superstitious than their predecessors, eh?”**

Poligny could only shrug, scanning the last few lines of the paper he held. As he stopped before his desk and made to set the stack down, he froze. There, resting at the very center of his table, lay a small envelope marked by a striking red wax seal. He subconsciously took a step backward, **“Uh, Nicolas…?"**

Debienne glanced up from the stack of papers that lay upon his own desk. His gaze immediately found the envelope and he could barely conceal the roll of his eyes, **“Oh, for god’s sake..”** He set down the things he carried and moved around his desk to stand beside Poligny. It was evident that both men had seen such an envelope before.

Neither man reached for it.

Debienne spoke again after a moment, **“Well, it was left on ** ** _your_ ** ** desk so it is clearly intended for you.”**

Poligny did not reply as he carefully set the papers he carried to one side of the envelope. Still, he did not reach for it.

Debienne seemed less awed by the object and more agitated, **“I wonder what the ‘ghost’ will complain about ** ** _this_ ** ** time?”** Clearing his throat, he assumed a falsetto tone, ** _“‘The sets must be redone! Were they painted by children?’ _ ** **Or perhaps, ** ** _‘The cats in the alley wail with more feeling than the chorus!’_ ** ** Or maybe, ** ** _‘Would it kill you gentlemen to find a bassoonist who can read music?’”_ **

Poligny glanced over at him with a quirked brow, **“Why do you make the ghost sound like a woman?”**

Debienne scoffed, **“Of course it is a woman! It complains exactly like one. The balls on that Giry woman…”**

Poligny’s eyes widened slightly and he turned to face Debienne, **“Giry? You think the ghost is Mme Giry?”**

Debienne lifted his chin and frowned, **“Yes!”**

Poligny shook his head and turned back to the envelope, **“Oh no, the ghost is certainly male.”**

Debienne’s expression changed then from a look of defiance to one of surprise and then to one of suspicion. He leaned toward Poligny slightly and crossed his arms over his chest, **“…you speak with a startling degree of authority on the topic. Do I take this to mean that you believe the stories now too?”**

Poligny would not look at him, **“Nicolas, I have seen him.”**

Debienne again rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to throw up his hands in exasperation, **“Emile, ‘he’ isn’t real. How can an opera house completed a year ago be haunted, I ask you? This ‘ghost’ is all an elaborate ruse intended to fool two new managers into submitting to the whims of their subordinates. I am convinced that the stagehands, the orchestra, the ballet, and that dance instructor are all in on the game.”**

Poligny shook his head, at last meeting Debienne’s gaze, **“But I have seen him, Nicolas. I swear to you.”** His eyes seemed to widen as he spoke, as if he was recalling some haunting scene in his mind’s eye.

Debienne could not ignore the sincerity in the other man’s tone and look, whatever his personal opinions on the matter may have been. He shifted in place, his agitation mounting, **“** ** _When_ ** ** have you seen him?”**

**“You remember the day the backdrop for the third act of ** ** _Carmen_ ** ** was destroyed?”**

**“Yes, the one the ‘ghost’ had been complaining about in its last note. It nearly crushed that Buquet boy.”**

**“…and everyone had thought it was Buquet’s fault because the ropes at his station had been untied? Everyone thought that he had been careless and had simply forgotten to secure it and the whole thing had come undone.”**

**“Yes, yes. What is your point?"**

**“You remember I left before it happened?”**

**“Yes, I thought you had returned to the office for some reason.”**

**“No, not at all. I had gone backstage. I saw the whole thing.”**

**“But why did you go backstage?”**

**“You will recall that the stage manager had called everyone to the front to prepare for the first stage rehearsal. I saw someone—a stagehand, I thought—walking around in the back and had gone to retrieve them. When I moved behind the curtains, I saw a figure up in the rafters near Buquet’s station and called to him. He turned to me and I could just make out his face—it resembled a death’s head, Nicolas, sunken eyes and all. He turned and looked down at me and ** ** _grinned. _ ** **He grinned at me, Nicolas. And then he tugged at the rope holding the backdrop and the whole thing came crashing down before I could stop him.”**

Debienne seemed astounded by this speech, **“Why did you not call for help? Surely a stagehand could have climbed up there and caught him?”**

Poligny shook his head, **“He had gone before I could get anyone’s attention.”**

Debienne raised a hand to Poligny as if tempted to hit him, **“For god’s sake, Emile, why am I only hearing about this now? We could have given a description of the criminal to the police! They could have put him in jail and then we would never have to read his silly notes ever again!”**

Poligny looked away, **“Well, I…I wasn’t sure of what I had seen.”**

Debienne’s eyes flashed, **“You sounded damned sure a minute ago.”**

Poligny straightened, sensing the challenge in Debienne’s voice. He cleared his throat, **“I wasn’t sure until I received a note from him.”** At last able to steel himself, Poligny reached forward and took up the mysterious envelope. Gingerly he broke the seal.

Debienne raised a brow, crossing his arms over his chest once more, **“Oh, so you have been corresponding with the criminal—I mean ** ** _ghost_ ** **? Again, I ask why this is the first I’m hearing any of this?”**

Poligny shot Debienne a look, **“Because I knew that ** ** _this_ ** ** is how you would respond.”** Carefully he slid a folded note out of the envelope and opened it. Three francs fell out onto the desk.

Debienne’s brows shot upward in surprise, **“What the hell…?”**

The note was written in a messy hand but was reasonably legible. It read:

_ Dear sir, _

_ You overpaid me last month. _

_ Your humble servant, _

_ O.G. _

Debienne’s eyebrows seemed to crawl further and further up his forehead until they were hidden by his hair, **“‘Overpaid’? ** ** _Overpaid?_ ** ** Emile, do I take this to mean that you have submitted to the ghost’s demands for a salary?”**

Poligny quickly retrieved the francs and folded the note, once more unwilling to meet Debienne’s gaze, **“…yes.”**

Debienne’s tone seemed to drip with venom, **“And how much, dare I ask, are we paying for the privilege of being haunted?”**

Poligny cleared his throat and mumbled something incoherent.

Debienne leaned forward trying to hear him, **“Twenty? Twenty what?”**

Poligny straightened and seemed to puff out his chest a little in a defiant fashion, speaking more clearly this time, **“Twenty-thousand francs.”**

Debienne staggered slightly, his hands lifted to his face as though he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull out his hair or cover his eyes, **“Twenty…twenty-** ** _thousand_ ** ** francs…”**

Poligny lifted his own hands in a defensive gesture, **“Nicolas, you must understand that I did what I felt was best for the Populaire. This man, this ghost—whatever he is—he is ** ** _dangerous_ ** **. A single damaged backdrop is only a small sampling of what he is capable of!”**

Debienne seemed to have determined at last what to do with his hands as he massaged his temples, **“Emile, you saw him for a split second. How can you be so certain ‘what he is capable of’?”**

Poligny reached forward as if to rest a hand upon Debienne’s shoulder, but then thought better of it, **“I have spoken with the stagehands and Mme Giry, and they have all told me stories about the ghost. Did you know that he murdered a man before we joined the Populaire? With his bare hands, Nicolas! He tied a rope around his neck and strangled him and then left the body for the ballet to find the next morning.”**

Debienne’s eyes shifted toward the ceiling, **“Ah, so he kills for sport? Excellent..”**

Poligny crossed his arms over his chest and straightened a little, giving Debienne a pointed look, **“No, it was punishment. The ghost dislikes being spoken of lightly.”**

Debienne shook his head and leaned heavily against the back of a nearby chair, **“So I take all of this to mean that we are being blackmailed…by a homicidal ‘ghost’…who apparently has an opinion on ** ** _every_ ** ** aspect of running this damned theater.”**

**“Extorted, actually.”**

**“So much the better.”**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter of (hopefully) many, brought to you by the random bursts of inspiration I have received since having been quarantined.

**"The managers are upset with me.”**

Erik leaned idly against the rafter upon which he had elected to perch so as to better observe the ballet's practice. His gaze, cold and fiery at once, shifted from the dancers upon the stage to the woman who stood just below him, **"Indeed?”**

Without glancing upward, Madame Giry nodded a shrugging sort of nod and sighed a resigned sigh, **"Indeed. Monsieur Debienne thinks me responsible for spreading ‘lies' about you, and Monsieur Poligny thinks me in league with you.”**

Erik could not suppress the smug grin her words inspired, but said nothing.

She continued, **"Frankly, I am astonished they have not dismissed me. Were we not on the verge of opening night, I am certain they would have.”**

**"Are you not?”** Erik said suddenly.

Madame Giry paused in mild confusion and glanced back over her shoulder where she seemed to think he stood.

Erik grinned, **“’In league with me,' I mean.”**

The woman huffed in response and straightened to her full, impressive height. Erik considered her for a moment, tracing the familiar lines of her face, or what little he could see of it from where he sat. She had a rigidness about her, the result of years upon years of training in dance. It was her discipline, perhaps, which he admired most; she could not be described as a great beauty, and certainly couldn't be called particularly clever, but she was nothing if not disciplined.

She moved away briefly to correct the form of a wayward dancer, then returned to the spot just offstage, apparently having taken the opportunity the interlude had offered to form a more politic reply. 

**"I am happy to deliver your notes and to tend to your box when it is required, but I do not know if any of this qualifies as being your ally or advocate.”**

He chuckled, **"Come now. Are we not friends?”**

**"Is it usual for one to be utterly terrified of one's friends?”**

**"Nonsense, Madame Giry. You have nothing at all to fear of me as long as you continue to follow all of my instructions as faithfully as you have done.”**

**"Those are hardly the words of a gentleman.”**

**"Ah, you think less of me simply because a few men happen to have fallen upon my lasso and broken their necks, do you?”**

Madame Giry seemed almost on the verge of chastising him for this rather nonchalant and irreverent description of his various murders, but her better sense prevailed and she said nothing.

A silence Erik interpreted as ‘comfortable' settled between them briefly as the ballet continued in their practice run through the performance they would have in a few evenings' time. His gaze had shifted then from Madame Giry to the dancers themselves and he took a bit more care to critique their skill. The dance instructor had clearly taken great pains with the girls, who ranged in age from ten to eighteen years - a feat which surely required a remarkable degree of patience.

His eyes soon fell upon one of the dancers in particular - easily one of the youngest among their number and clearly entirely new to their ranks for she possessed none of the carefully practiced ease of the other girls. She stood off to one side of the stage out of the way of the others and her smooth brow was briefly furrowed in concentration as she attempted to mimic her fellow dancers' movements. After several minutes, she seemed to give up and began instead to work on stretching her stiff leg muscles.

**"You have a new dancer,”** Erik said after several minutes. It was more a statement than a question, and it was evident in his tone that he was not impressed.

Madame Giry lifted her head and turned her own gaze upon the girl before speaking quickly, **"It is Christine Daae. She arrived only last week so I beg of you to withhold your judgement of her dancing ability until she has had some time to practice.”**

Erik pretended to scoff, **"Madame Giry does not take favorites - not even her own daughter! What can account for this preferential treatment?”**

Madame Giry sighed and bowed her head slightly, inwardly debating if this was a story she desired to tell. Apparently coming to a decision, she tapped her cane upon the floor in a thoughtful fashion, **"She is the daughter of one of my dearest friends - Olivia Daae, who married the famed violinist Gustave Daae.”**

Erik quirked a brow at this statement, **"He cannot be so very famous - _I_ have certainly never heard of him.”**

**"Of course not. They were Swedish.”**

**“’Were’?”**

Madame Giry sighed, though it was unclear if it was done out of exasperation or sorrow.

**"My dear Olivia died some years ago, and Gustave passed very recently. Christine is entirely alone in the world…”**

If Erik was moved by this speech, he made no indication and said nothing in reply.

Madame Giry went on, **"Just before his death, Gustave sent a letter to me requesting that I take in little Christine and teach her my ‘trade,' as he called it, that she might have some protection and means of supporting herself."** She shifted slightly in place as if considering her next words very carefully, **"She will surely become a talented member of the ballet, but her true gift lies in song. When her father would perform on his violin, little Christine would accompany him with her voice and sing the songs he had written for her. She has a very charming voice, you must know -“**

Erik interjected, **"Why are you telling me this?”**

Madame Giry seemed taken aback by his abruptness.

Erik waited for an answer but, seeing that he would receive none, he attempted to interpret her meaning, **"You intend for me to evaluate her for the opera? She is but ten or eleven, Madame Giry, and will no doubt need considerable training…”**

**"I mean for you to teach her, yourself,”** Madame Giry said at last, having found her resolve.

This was met with rather surprised silence. It was true that Erik had spent considerable amounts of time studying musical composition and theory and had even taught himself to sing in the operatic way - and excelled in it, as he did in everything he attempted. His gifts were readily apparent in the way he skillfully and intelligently critiqued the performances of the Populaire's premier singers. 

But to teach? The thought had never occurred to him. Surely there were others much better suited to the task…

Madame Giry seemed to anticipate the turn of his thoughts, for she spoke quickly in the next moment, **"She is poor and obscure and would surely have great difficulty in securing a teacher otherwise…a teacher worth his salt, anyway.”**

Erik, collecting his thoughts, replied smoothly, **"But you have just informed me that you are terrified of me, and perhaps for good reason. Wouldn't my tutelage of Miss Daae be akin to throwing her to the wolves…by your own estimation?”**

Madame Giry, far from being caught off guard, was ready with an answer, **"You have said yourself that anyone who follows your commands faithfully has nothing to fear of you. And Christine is a very good girl - I have no doubt that she would be an obedient student.”**

**"She may, indeed, be a suitable student, but what makes you think that _I_ might be a suitable teacher?”**

Madame Giry tossed her head in a way which suggested that the answer to his question was ridiculously obvious, **"Anyone who has heard you sing would think you not merely suitable, but ideal.”**

Erik sighed to himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose in mild annoyance, **"My talent alone does not qualify me to tutor anyone else. I do believe your confidence in me is profoundly misplaced.”**

Madame Giry's voice began to assume a frustrated tone, **"You always have so much to say regarding the skill of our resident Prima Donna, and very little of it is good. I would have thought you would eagerly take any opportunity to form your own Prima Donna to meet your idea of perfection. Christine Daae is a particularly promising singer - a sculptor could not ask for better clay.”**

For a woman so lacking in cleverness, Madame Giry made excellent points.

Erik, impressed by Madame Giry's earnest desire for him to take the girl under his wing but reluctant to submit to it, fell into a thoughtful silence for several minutes before speaking at last, **"I will consider it. I must observe her, myself, to determine whether I may be of use to her.”** This seemed as diplomatic a response as could be managed.

Madame Giry was satisfied, **"I thank you.”**

Without another word, Erik disappeared from the rafters above the stage. 

Though Madame Giry could not hear his movements and could not have seen him depart, the heaviness his presence lent to the surrounding air lifted noticeably and she knew herself to be alone once more.

\---

Over the course of the following weeks, Erik took occasional opportunities to observe the young Miss Daae. Madame Giry's request had struck him as particularly unusual for the dance instructor had rarely requested favors of him, if any at all. There must be something about little Christine - beyond the friendship and love Madame Giry had fostered for her mother - which gave the older woman cause to think her the most promising of her girls.

Christine, for her part, seemed…entirely normal. There was nothing Erik could find which suggested her a prodigy in any way - he had heard her playfully singing with Madame Giry's daughter, little Meg, on one or two occasions but was not particularly struck by her supposed ‘gift.' She was certainly pretty but not in the extraordinary way in which up-and-coming young Prima Donnas often were, and, what was more, she seemed a bit too stubborn for his taste (Erik could not abide the thought of having his every command questioned).

It was not until he happened upon an interesting scene one morning that he began to seriously consider her.

The hour was reasonably early, for Madame Giry was strict regarding the dancer's practice schedule and even more so given her displeasure in their recent performances. Several of the girls, including Christine, had already arrived in the room designated for practice and were now talking amongst themselves in quiet tones while they warmed and stretched their limbs.

Erik, while designing the Populaire the year before, placed trapdoors and secret passages in nearly every room. He was safely hidden behind the far wall of the practice space and on his way to deliver a message to the managers regarding something or other of the business of running the establishment. It was only when he heard a sharp voice rise above the din that he was forced to pause and listen with some curiosity.

One of the older girls had just entered the room and, upon noticing Christine where she stood in the corner with Meg, said loudly, **"Oh look! It is the talentless orphan.”**

It was not unusual for the dancers to develop cliques among themselves. Occasionally the little dramas which unfolded among them could interest Erik, but for now his only curiosity involved seeing how Christine would respond to a bit of bullying. He peered through a small hole in the wall to witness the scene, his eye trained upon Miss Daae's countenance and the expression it assumed upon being addressed thusly.

Christine's mouth became a straight, thin line, but she did not respond.

The older girl, unsatisfied with the lack of a reaction to her prodding, went on, **"Do stretch carefully, Christine. You so often resemble a ridiculous little marionette when you dance.”**

What could account for this random cruelty, Erik wondered to himself. Was it possible that the other girl was jealous of Madame Giry’s clear preference for Miss Daae? Did she think Christine prettier than herself or more talented? It was not for him to understand the confusing inner workings of the female mind, he mused at last.

But how would Christine respond? At present, she seemed rather speechless.

Christine, apparently impressed by the last insult hurled at her, straightened a little and turned slightly to face her assailant. In a clear, unshaking voice, she replied cooly, **“Dear Adrienne, it must be so very difficult to dance well when one is shaped so like a pig.”**

_‘Not entirely speechless,’_ Erik corrected himself, stifling the urge to chuckle.

The older girl glared openly at Christine and the smug grin she had worn moments before faded swiftly into a frown. Though she seemed more than capable of dispensing insults toward others, she was less prepared to deal with their answer. Tossing her head, the girl appeared to cast about for some witty retort but, apparently finding none, retreated to the opposite corner of the room to join her friends who all quietly attempted to reassure her that she was quite svelte and need not pay mind to that ‘vulgar Daae girl.’

Meg Giry, clearly impressed by Christine’s courage, wordlessly clasped her friend’s hand and they exchanged grins.

Erik, too, was impressed by Christine’s pluck. The Adrienne girl had always been reasonably high up in the pecking order of the ballet and was rarely taken to task for her somewhat tyrannical rule over the other girls. Miss Daae, in meeting Adrienne where she stood, had established herself as an equal even while being several years her junior.

Once more, Erik contemplated Madame Giry’s request. This newfound knowledge of little Christine’s character seemed to change his earlier opinion, and when he at last returned to his home beneath the opera, he penned a note to the dance instructor:

_Madame Giry,  
I will teach Miss Daae._

His hand paused just as he was about to sign his usual farewell, recalling briefly their exchange weeks earlier. The corner of his mouth quirked upward slightly, and he finished the note:

_Your friend,  
O.G._


End file.
